Brevis Fabula
by Fireglass
Summary: -Hope beyond the dawn, for the light and shadows become one. -A collection of Harry Potter oneshots. Spoilers for all books. Slight AU at times. Reviews welcomed, constructive critism appreciated.
1. Through his eyes l Sirius centric l

_--Forgive me, James. I tried to protect him. I tried so hard…--_

_The night of the third TriWizard task through Sirius' eyes. What he saw…what he thought…how he felt._

_Setting: Goblet of Fire, between chapters thirty-one and thirty-six_

_Characters: Sirius, Harry, Dumbledore, others_

_Pairings: Slight Ron/Hermione, if you look hard enough; slight Sirius/Hermione_

_Rating: PG _

_Spoilers: Through book four_

* * *

_Brevis Fabula I:_

--Through His Eyes--

* * *

It wasn't easy, being on the outreaches like this. Not easy at all.

He had been a fugitive now for just under two years…it seemed exceptionally longer, especially when ever fiber of his cursed, guilt-ridden, irritated hide ached for the fortitude of the castle walls, for the safety of the Quidditch grounds…to watch, to referee in his own right…to stand guard.

But he couldn't be a distraction…couldn't. Not tonight. They had to believe he was still stolen away to his cave-side dwelling, in the company of a magical creature that, by all rights, was as much a fugitive as he was. Had to believe that…because otherwise they would all worry, needlessly, stupidly, just for him…and that was something he didn't want, something _they_ certainly didn't _need_.

Not tonight.

But his own worries, unlike theirs, were not easily sated.

He stole onto the grounds under a cover of quickly-encroaching darkness; he was bone-wearied, exhausted, thin around the ribs and hollow in the flanks. His lack-luster, shaggy coat blended perfectly into the inky shadows of the night, so that only his eyes—pale, glowing, penetrating eyes that had seen far too much death and suffering in one lifetime—shone through the darkness, pierced through the gloom, though the pretense of the night…and he searched, searched desperately for a resting place. A place where he could see, yet still remain, by all accounts, himself un-see-able. A place…

He stumbled upon Hagrid's hut by absolute accident—he was paying little attention to where his instinct-bound, thudding footfalls carried him. He was only dimly surprised when he lifted his head—which had been lowered, nostrils snuffling along the unseeing path he followed, searching out any scent of one who might betray his true self—and saw the faint, reddish glow of the cabin…and beyond its colossal berth, the massive, glimmering curvature of the Beaubaxtons' carriage rising from the darkness like the sinister gleam of an as-of-yet unhatched dragon's egg.

Instant awareness raised the fur along his hackles, set his body to shuddering. He dropped into a crouch and slipped backward into the fringe of the trees—watching. Waiting, as instinct commanded.

After several seemingly endless moments, the large, rutted-faced door to the cabin eased inward on hinges that sounded badly in need of oiling, and the grounds-keeper himself emerged, adorned in a great moleskin jacket that would have seemed better suited as a hearthrug. He chanced a single, furtive glance toward the enormous carriage dominating the western half of his land…and then hastened away into the gloom.

The moments continued to wear on—the shadows seemed to seep forth from the forest, pooling around the massive shape crouched at the treeline. The great, shaggy-haired dog gazed about with its wide, wise eyes—deciding.

And then, softly, he crept forward.

The darkness has ensconced fully upon the distant western horizon as he stole forward into the large, paddock-sized plot of land that was traditionally home to the largest pumpkins any human outside of the wizarding world could possibly have seen…at the present, however, the place reeked with the faintest scent of abandonment, as though it had not been tended to for some time. Indeed, the dark, churned earth was beginning to be suffused by thick, pale-stemmed weeds.

With a final cautious glance toward the seemingly-dormant cabin…Hagrid's boarhound seemed to be immersed in a deep, un-stirring slumber…he settled himself amongst the weeds, keeping one ear inclined aside at all times, detecting the slightest movements in the night—and he set his eyes upon the Quidditch field, a mere silhouette against the rapidly-deepening mantle of the night. Seated, with his haunches brushing the sun-baked loam, his tail curled about his aft-paws, his forelegs ramrod straight, supporting his weight, he honed his senses into the distance…and tried very hard not to think.

Thoughts, of course, are overpowering things, and he found himself entirely unable to numb his psyche for any prolonged period of time; within several heartbeats, he found his mind wandering, to dark notions and even darker, deeper fears.

_It was foolish, stupid of me, to get this attached. _He mused wretchedly, the tip of his great, unkempt tail twitching at the thought. _Thirteen years of caring for no one but myself…and the memories of those I have failed…and suddenly I find a purpose to live beyond my revenge? Dangerous…I've fallen in too deeply…and he deserves a better man, a more able man, to care for him…_

He scuffed his forepaw against the dust, a very human gesture of resignation, and turned his eyes toward Hagrid's cabin, briefly. A thousand painful memories flooded over him as he detected the echo of his own features in the reflective glass window. A shiver wracked down his aching spine.

_A man…who is not even a man...nor a beast. _He realized, despondently. _Who walks the line between both…a very dangerous line…_

How had he come to care so much? To risk his life for someone he had known for only fourteen years, and for twelve of them, at only a distance? Yet he _had _cared…for so long. Hearing the others in their prison cells in the dead of night, cursing the name of the boy who had defeated The Dark Lord, as they restlessly slumbered…he had wanted to protect that boy, to shield him from the sinister devices of those whom he, as a mere infant, had cast down from glory.

And yet, he found now, he could do little else but watch, and wait…and pray. Pray to every god he knew that he was wrong, that they all were, that the danger was all imagined and that nothing could go wrong, nothing, nothing…

A great, resounding exclamation of excitement erupted upward from the Quidditch field, seeming to reverberate against the very heavens themselves; his head, still inclined aside toward the cabin, swung around at once, and a new sense of urgency poured through him. His forepaws began to dance sporadically against the soil, in a manner reflective of a human being drumming his or her nails upon any stable surface—it was a gesture of utter abandon, of nervousness personified.

_Don't die…don't die…I won't be able to live with myself if you do_. His mind seethed the words, forcing him to confront his deepest, most repressed fears. For one wild moment, he considered showing himself before the assembly, if only to catch a glimpse of the one he cared so deeply for…

But he could not risk the distraction…

A second, raucous howling pierced through the night, followed almost instantaneously by a third…and he felt he could bear it no more. Lowering himself to his stomach, head resting on paws, he released a low whimper of agony through his gritted fangs. Already he felt as though a piece of him was missing…as though some terrible, inevitable thing was lurking at the corners, waiting to devour, to kiss, to consume…

_How did I get in this far? _He wondered once more.

Several flashes of light exploded throughout the stadium, bringing the tumult of the assembly to greater heights; he ached to know, to see for himself, but something restrained him—an invisible hand upon his shoulder, perhaps, a distant voice whispering in his ear.

_This is his task. This is what he was destined to do._

Scarcely consoled by the notion, his body rocked with another spasmodic, anxious whimper.

_Don't die. Don't die, Harry. Don't die._

The great, echoing cries of the crowd swelled high, and then receded; it seemed the world held its breath, and he with the rest, knowing that the excitement of the moment had faded, overrun by the strain of what was to come.

He was not so far distanced from them all, not so removed from those fortunate souls who witnessed the events firsthand, that his heart, too, did not cease its frantic pounding as a hoarse, agonized cry gashed through the silence of the night. His mind cowered away as his body would not, and he clawed desperately within his heart at the line that bound them…bound him to the boy, as though their souls were somehow entwined…and a sense of release flooded through him, loosening a fraction of the tension the sealed him, immobile, to the earth.

_He's still alive._

Unable to bear the pain of the unknown, of the forthcoming, he rose to his great, travel-worn paws and began to pace, his head swinging, his eyes darting once and again toward the distant, shimmering stadium.

The pained yelling was silenced so abruptly, so unexpectedly, that it gave him brief pause. Angling aside, toward the Quidditch field once more, he waited for several silent moments with bated breath.

A jet of red sparks whipped upward from the stadium, hanging suspended in a brilliant array against the night sky, for a moment—before they rained, like bloody, sifted sugar…down, down, down into oblivion.

The thread that bound them told him nothing; he did not know….

Without even consciously making the decision, he resumed his pacing.

Around, and around, and around; his footfalls carved a well-defined track in the untended earth; the weariness seemed about to consume him, after his painful trek, precursor to the harrowing evening…

_Nothing will happen to him. _He reassured himself, his steps slackening as exhaustion overrode his anxiety-bred determination. _Not with the entire force of Dumbledore's finest in attendance. He'll be fine. _

A great, many-voiced gasp hissed upward into the night; he slowed to a near-standstill, his footfalls barely more than whispered breaths, carrying him forward several paces amongst the tightly-hemmed weeds. His eyes traced the movements of several vivid, blinding flashes that arced upward from the stadium, livid like bruises against the night sky…spells being cast, the voices that spoke them remaining indistinguishable even to his finely-attuned ears.

After several breathless moments, a single, spindly leg arched upward from the confines of the Quidditch field, just within the parameters of his eyesight…then sank from view, receding once more into the steeply-sloped hold of the stadium. His stomach plunged horribly as he was forcefully reminded of Aragog…the great, ancient spider that he had seen but once, during one of many misadventures into shadowed, dangerous places, in a past so distant it seemed like another lifetime altogether…

He approached the fore-edge of the pumpkin-patch, where the last remnants of what had once been a fence remained, erected with wooden stakes boring deep into the soil. Lurching upward, he rested his forepaws upon the top bar, and gazed away into the night, contemplating.

He was uncertain as to how much time had elapsed since his arrival in this desolate, lonely place. Certainly, it would not last much longer now…what was to happen, would happen, and he would know for certain the outcome, within moments…

A great, blinding sense of pain erupted through his midsection, suddenly, unexpectedly, paralyzing him, doubling him over with his forepaws braced still upon the fencing—just as a collective gasp of fear and denial rippled toward him across the deserted school-grounds. A distant voice screamed—screamed long, and loud, as though in true pain…and then the shocked, disbelieving bellowing began.

A great, rushing wind seemed to fill his ears; he couldn't breathe. It was _that night _again, it seemed…that night thirteen years ago when he had woken, sweating and shaking, knowing that something terrible had transpired, feeling it—that sense of pain, that agony of fear—scorching through him, to the marrow, to the core…the night that his closest friend had been murdered…

_No! _The pain ripped through him, the sense of failure, the knowing, the _not knowing_…that something horrible had come to pass, that the cries echoing from the stadium were a symbol of a great and terrible tragedy, that the mighty, deafening boom of the Headmaster's magically magnified voice meant more than just an announcement of the champion…

Anguish struck a chord deep within his body, in the very heart of the bond…and he knew that something was irrevocably amiss.

_No…no…not him…NO!_

In his great fury and pain mingled, he crushed his weight forward, shattering the fence into several large, serrated-edged fractions. He thudded heavily onto his forepaws, and for a moment it seemed that his shaggy coat receded, the skin of a man gleaming beneath…and then his luminous eyes shuttered, and he inhaled deeply, several times, regaining his control in a heartbeat.

_James…help him…he can't do this alone._

The wind wafted past him—a sigh, a sealing. He cast a final, anxious glance toward the stadium, and a massive shudder of tension rippled through him once more.

_It's in your hands, now_.

And he began to pace once more.

He reflected—as he circled among the rush-like overgrowth permeating the once-nutrient-rich soil—on how their chance encounter nearly twenty-four months ago had changed him—changed things _about _him that he had believed instilled forever. How he had thought that revenge was all that drove him…but there was protectiveness, responsibility, too. He had thought that the friend who had betrayed him…him, and _his _closest friend,for the sake of personal gain…was the only one that mattered. Mattered more than anything…more than eating or sleeping or _breathing_. But he had learned that he was wrong there, too…because there was a boy. An odd, strangely compassionate, yet still voracious boy, with the face of his father and the eyes of his mother, and somehow, lost even to the dementia of a single, so-near goal, he had known…that boy _mattered_. He meant something, something more than for simple use, more than just a means to an end. He was important…important to them all, but moreso to _him._ And he had recognized this knowledge, proved his devotion by sacrificing his revenge on the one that had ruined them all…

How he had come to regret that decision! Yet he knew…even now, consumed by worry, his ears angled toward the distant stadium that reverberated with the distressed cries of the attendees…that boy still _mattered_, more than all the rest. He would walk through fire for that boy, pass through any doorway, wade to any depths. He would _die _for that boy.

As he continued to trudge a familiar circle through the vegetation encroaching upon the unattended face of the small land-plot, his trail dragging against the dust, his head bowed beneath the line of his shoulders, he became aware of a much more feeble, repressed feeling of comprehension beginning to burn in his heart; less of a comprehension, he realized, after a moment, and more of a percolation within his gut—as though he had devoured an entire barrel full of flobberworms, and they were currently writhing about in his stomach.

With this indeterminable knowledge came an unshakably _watched _feeling, as thought the shadows fluting all about him were near to gaining true form. He halted his repetitive pacing, casting swift glances to his right and to his left, scenting the air, tracing, detecting…

And in a flash, it became suddenly, blindingly clear…so clear that he wondered why he hadn't realized it before. The cause of all of this…the source, the _meaning. _

He had heard them speak of it a thousand times in that dark, forbidden fortress, had heard them wailing and muttering about it in the depths of their restless, tormented dreams. Words whose meanings he had shied—had truly _cringed—_away from…

_Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!...Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master!...Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe!_

It wasn't possible!

And yet…

Would it not explain everything?

_I'm such a fool! _He cursed himself, savagely. _It was right before me, all this time! Why did I never realize it?…I heard them speaking of it often enough in that terrible place. Why did I not realize it, that the end…the end was the beginning! It was never over, they were never truly gone, they were just waiting…waiting in the wings…waiting for the opportunity…waiting for him!_

A blistering howl of negation ripped from between his teeth as he spun to face the stadium—and a great, blinding flash erupted from the heart of the Quidditch field. The screams arose anew…rending the sky cleanly as far as his resting place…and he felt as though that half of him, that missing fraction, had somehow been restored; certainly, there was a darker taint to it, as there was to the relief that flooded through him…but it was relief, it was _wholeness_, nonetheless.

He had to know…had to return to the castle, to tell them all that he _did _know. If he was right…if his mind, clear even in this fatigued form, had truly settled upon the darkest of possible scenarios, and had amply comprehended…then they were facing war.

Hedarted forward several paces, desperation aching in his bones…and then halted, his mind aflame.

_Go to him now, and it will only upset him. _He realized, tensely. _He'll be too worried about my concealment to look after himself. I can't let him do that…not this time._

Restless with impatience, he resumed his pacing, the familiar sound of each footfall ringing like the bell in the High Tower within his ears. Gradually, the leathery flesh of his pads began to dissolve, yielding to the unforgiving earth, opening bleeding fissures in his well-worn paws. Pain ratcheted through his nerves with each step, but he dutifully ignored the it…this weak sensation of throbbing was nothing, _nothing _next to all that he had endured in Azkaban…

It seemed like a month's time had elapsed—though it could not have been much more than several minutes later—when he saw a darkly-robed shape advancing across the grounds toward the cabin. Instantly he halted—the true extent of the injuries to his feet becoming obvious when he was immobile—and he squinted warily into the night, attempting to discern…

He would have known that sharp-nosed, piercing-eyed face anywhere; Professor Minerva McGonagall, shrouded in a thick cloak which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a deep, royal shade of maroon, her expression slightly nonplussed beyond the usual stern cast, was descending upon him.

Fearful uncertainty kindled in his heart, giving pause to the relief and even temporary excitement that surged through him—_Here's what I need, one of Dumbledore's closest friends to speak with!—_the moment he recognized her; warily, he retreated a step, lifting his right foreleg defensively; he would never attack, of course, but of this she was unaware…unless she knew…unless…

But if she knew it was him…if she saw through the pretenses, just as she had done when he was her student, again, in another lifetime…would she call down the fires of Azkaban on him? He knew how mysterious it must seem…so many a strange thing transpiring at the school, and his presence on the night when…if his suspicions proved correct…

Well, certainly, it would seem a strange thing…

Professor McGonagall halted before the jagged ruins of the half-fence; she gazed down at the broken sectionals, an expression of surprise and disgust mingling upon her face. Impatiently—anxiously—he watched her. He waited.

At long last, she lifted her eyes to his, and her gaze, though full of uncertainty, remained somehow still firm.

" Well, you've certainly managed to make a mess of this, haven't you?" She inclined her head sharply toward the ruined fence; despite the urgency that wreathed the entire essence of the eve, he could not restrain a low swishing of his shaggy tail. Seeming to take encouragement from this friendly display—_Does she fear me?_—McGonagall straightened rigidly, and continued, " Professor Dumbledore has asked me to escort you to his office." Her tone was clipped, stern, with just a hint of disproval flavoring her words. Then, with utmost reluctance, she removed one hand from the neck of her cloak and patted her thigh, stiffly. " Come."

He bristled slightly, at first…he did not take kindly to being summoned like a common cur…and then, abruptly, he relaxed.

_She's right…I _have _made a mess of things. _He acknowledged, grimly. _The least I can do is be there for Harry…if he needs me…_

He trotted forward to Professor McGonagall's side, and gazed up at her, patiently waiting. She held his gaze for no more than a heartbeat; then, squaring her shoulders, she swiveled on heel and marched toward the castle, with him padding after her, limping with each alternate stride.

All was silent, for a time; from a distance, he could see a dark tide of bodies flooding from the Quidditch grounds, could hear their muffled conversation filtering upon the wind. He listened, intent, attempting to discern any recognizable voices…

" It has been a strange evening, hasn't it?"

McGonagall's voice—exceptionally loud, it seemed, after the prolonged quiet—drew him abruptly from his reverie. He glanced upward, saw that she had followed his gaze…and, by pretense, merely canted his head in true canine fashion.

The fierce, elderly witch drew her cloak more tightly about her narrow shoulders, and rocked her head slowly aside.

" Very strange, indeed…Krum's actions…Potter and Diggory's vanishing during the trial…" His ears perked at these words, his muscles growing rigid, " Karkaroff's disappearance…and then Moody, attacking young Potter…very lucky Dumbledore, Snape, and myself arrived when we did…" There was a definite tremor to her voice as McGonagall concluded, and he felt as though his heart would burst with fear.

_Alastor Moody…attack Harry? That doesn't make sense…_

" Of course, " McGonagall continued, her voice still faintly aquiver. " If Albus is right…and I daresay he is…then we're not dealing with the true Alastor Moody, but rather, an imposter…"

_I suppose it makes sense now. _He concluded wryly.

Leaning forward, he bumped his nose gently against Professor McGonagall's hand, drawing her from her troubled thoughts. She glanced swiftly down at him, and blinked, seeming to come back to herself.

" How very foolish…how strange of a night it is." She mused. " That I find myself speaking of a witch's troubles to a simple dog…"

He panted up at her, open-mouthed, his heart aching.

What a cruel world…what a terrible fate it was, to be unable to speak to those he had once cared for, simply for the sake of concealment…

They reached the castle moments later, to find that its great fore-doors were nearly overrun with students of all ages, desperate to return to the safety of deeply-beloved familiarity. He noted that the Hufflepuffs seemed particularly anxious to retreat from the cruel, wind-swept grounds, their expressions of numb disbelief echoed equally from eye to eye.

" Excuse me!" McGonagall hailed loudly as she began to wade through the students, the great, shaggy dog bounding at her heels. The bystanders parted readily before him, seeming frightened…he did not pause to pay them notice.

The muffled, overlapping words of the students left in their wake faded into dull background noise as they ascended staircase after winding staircase, side-by-side. He tried desperately not to think of the last time he had been here—when he had still been hunting for that traitorous _friend_…

If McGonagall's declaration of the boys' disappearance during the trial was as significant as he foresaw…if that betrayer had laid one hand on the boy's head…he swore vehement bloodshed, if only to himself, as they passed through the last of the barriers and ascended into Dumbledore's office.

McGonagall turned the handle of the great oak door, allowing him entrance, but she did not follow him.

" Please wait here, _quietly_." She added the last word with a severe look, and he made a great show of seating himself, holding her gaze levelly.

He would wait as long as he had to, to see that most-important boy…

McGonagall scrutinized him shrewdly for a moment more; then she pivoted on heel and closed the door softly at her back. His ears pricked, he listened for the sounds of her retreat…heard her muttering, " A useless, Muggle-raised dog! What use will Albus have for him?"…and then the low shuddering of the shifting stone gargoyle signaled her absolute departure.

A great, canine sigh erupted from the massive, shaggy dog—and morphed, as he did, becoming a low, human moan.

He was on his feet, brushing his overgrown hair, pitch dark as a raven's wing, from his forehead before the last of the canine fur had faded from his flesh. A smear of blood, silvered by moonlight, traced a path along his temple as he pulled his hand away; his palms and the soles of his feet were ripped raw and bleeding. Paying no mind to his injuries, he approached the window at the far end of the room—passing the desk, aclutter with the odds and ends required in executing the tasks of a Headmaster—and, with his arms crossed over his chest, he surveyed the grounds.

He could scarcely see the Quidditch field, even from this distance, nearer than his previous dwelling had been; clouds had amassed upon the distant horizon, veiling the moonlight; he was only dimly aware of the fact that his hands were burning with pain, and that he was completely and utterly exhausted…there were other, more pressing things to dwell upon…

_He's back. _It was a grim, undeniable notion, one that brought a shiver whispering through him. _I can feel him. I know what he wants, what he's after…_

In a movement of anguish, swift as the lunging motion of a canine, he rested his fist against his forehead, convulsive shudders clawing down his spine.

_Forgive me, James. I tried to protect him. I tried so hard…_

A soft, warm note…like a nostalgic melody, the voice from a happy memory…wafted toward his ears. He glanced sharply upward as, in a flash of crimson and aurulent wings, a phoenix glided forward to perch itself on his shoulder. It lowered its head; he ran his fingers wonderingly over its soft plumage.

" I remember you." He murmured. " James and I found Snape trying to transfigure you once…on a dare from one of his friends. We saved you, didn't we?"

The great fowl blinked gently at him; and a single, glistening tear dripped from its fierce eye, onto his palm.

Instantly, the ache of the injury vanished; he could not repress a strained smile, touching the bird lightly upon its throat.

" Thank you." He murmured.

The phoenix merely crooned—once, softly—and turned aside, rising from his shoulder, gliding noiselessly into a shadowed corner of the room.

The seconds passed in silence, leaving him to his disorganized thoughts, one blending effortlessly into the next. He conjured up plans…outlandish, wishful plans…of how he intended to defend that boy, the son of his deceased friend. How they could vanish…disappear, never to be seen unless they willed it so. He wiled the minutes away in unachievable musings, slaking the pain and desperation that gnawed against his insides—until, at last, the door swung open soundlessly behind him.

He wasn't certain what compelled the ceasing of his breaths—perhaps the fear that, even now, it had all been in vain, that the one who mattered most, his reason for living, had been torn away by their enemies—but there was a wonderful sort of release in seeing them both behind him…Albus Dumbledore, his usually serene face contorted in a mask of indecision and worry, his eyes aglow with thoughtfulness…and there, at his side, head bent, shoulders slumped, looking for all the world as though he was a thoroughly whipped cur, was…

" Harry." He could hear the relief saturating his own voice. _How did I get in this deep? _He hastened to the boy's side, resting his hands briefly on Harry's shoulders, searching for his gaze, powerless to hold it…then guiding him to a chair, pushing him gently down into it, all the while unable to properly voice the relief and anxiety that burned hot as flame within him. " I knew it, I knew something like this…" He hesitated, unwilling to express the shadowed depths to which his fears had hastened him, and he simply concluded, " What happened?"

Dumbledore, gliding with a grace belying his years, to stand behind his desk, began in a low, rumbling voice, " As Minerva no doubt informed you, however unwittingly, Sirius, the Alastor Moody we have known for the past months is no more an Auror nor a loyal wizard than Rita Skeeter…and I daresay that's no compliment." His mouth turned up slightly at the corner, then slid almost at once back into slack. " No, the man I hired…rather foolishly, I might add, how could I have been so blind?...is none other than an imposter by the name of Bartemius Crouch."

As Dumbledore explained, the weary man pushed his dark hair from his forehead once more and continued to watch the boy…to watch him as his head sank lower and his eyes grew darker with exhaustion, with memories, and every few moments he would shift, wincing as though he was in physical pain…

In a rush of wings, the phoenix glided past him, and landed on Harry's knee. A spark of life seemed to enter the boy's eyes…and it was something of a relief, to witness as much. So much so, in fact, that the man was better able to focus, to turn aside and face Dumbledore as the ancient Headmaster concluded his speech.

" And so, we come full circle." Dumbledore murmured, his tone strangely bitter, heavy with timeless sadness. " The wise Headmaster who thought he was deceiving his enemies was himself deceived. Nearly poetic, isn't it?" Once more, his features relaxed into a docile half-smile, and he lowered himself into his chair opposite the boy. His voice strangely business-like, he continued.

" I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze, Harry…."

And so it went; words exchanged, tales told, and all the while the man and the boy grew equally more exhausted. There were strange lurches and dragging, aching lulls in the story, while occasionally something penetrated through the thick haze of disbelief and distance surrounding him, piercing him through with a thousand daggers…

" And then he unwrapped the blankets, and I saw…I saw _him, _Professor…"

" I'd never seen anything like it, all of them Apparating there…"

" And he was just staring, _staring_, and I couldn't believe he was dead…"

The boy spoke in a monotonous voice, as though describing things seen through the eyes of another, and all the while the man grew more concerned, more strained, more powerless to control the hatred of the enemy as it flooded through him. How much easier it was to sort these emotions in his other form, he mused wryly, when everything was as clear as the night before his eyes and the ground beneath his paws…

" And then he took out this knife, and…I don't know what happened, Professor…I just couldn't fight him, and…he cut me…"

The words burned into the travel-weary man as the boy spoke them, and he swore loudly, the face of the betrayer fresh in his mind. His grip on Harry's shoulder tightened—_I'll kill him, I swear I will…he'll die for this—_as he watched, as if from afar, Dumbledore's approach; the headmaster spoke, distantly, his expression becoming strangely satisfied…but he heard it all, saw it all through a haze of red.

It was all he could do not to give over to his instincts, to transform, to hunt down that traitor…

And then Dumbledore retreated, returned to his seat, his face a carefully blank mask as the boy continued.

" He told them that he wouldn't forgive, that he wouldn't forget…"

" They were throwing themselves all over him, begging…it was really sick…"

" He gave me my wand, and we…well, we started to duel…"

" I hid behind the gravestone…"

" We attacked, and our wands, they…connected…"

Silence wreathed around them as his voice tapered into a whisper; the boy stared downward, and the man watched him, and Albus watched the man…and the man spoke, lowly, wonderingly, his mind unable to comprehend…

" The wands connected? Why?"

More words, more answers, many of which did not register; he was only dimly aware of a faint numbness coming over him, protecting him, shielding him from what he knew was coming. Words swirled, spat through his mind, never fully plausible…

_Priori Incantatem…_

_The Reverse Spell Effect?_

_A feather from the tail of the same phoenix…_

_What happens when a wand meets its brother?_

_One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate spells it has preformed…_

The hazy numbness was fluctuating, coming and receding in odd intervals, and he knew that something, something was coming…something horribly painful…and still he could not truly hear all that was said, not even those words which came from his own mouth…

_Which means…that some form of Cedric must have reappeared…_

_Diggory came back to life?_

_A shadow would have emerged from the wand…_

_An echo…_

And then the boy was speaking, and he fought against the haze, because the boy _mattered_, and what he said _mattered…_

" An old man." Harry whispered. " Bertha Jorkins, and…"

A pause.

" Your parents?"

" Yeah."

His hand, resting upon the boy's shoulder, constricted—and then, abruptly, released. Agony washed through him, nearly crippling him—crippling him for the sake of the loyalty beyond the grave, that his request to James in the deserted garden had been heard, crippling for the loss of two people he had loved above all others, crippling for his own failure…

He buried his face in his hands, futilely attempting to block their faces from his mind; their faces as he had seen them last, cold as the stone walls of the castle; Lily's eyes staring, James' wide with shock, both of them rigid, both of them seeming desperate, even in death…

Was that how the boy had seen him…the boy who mattered so much? Had he suffered through such agony, through the torture of seeing them as they had been when last any living soul had laid eyes upon them?

He had failed them, failed them all…his final promise to James, as he knelt with his hand on his friend's shoulder—_I'll protect him, James, I swear it on my life. Voldemort…wherever he is…I swear to God, James, he'll never touch Harry again—_his last words to Lily, as he stroked her flyaway hair from her face—_I won't let your sacrifice be in vain_—and every single vow he had made to Harry of protecting him…all of it had been rendered vain, naught, ruin.

All because he couldn't murder a backstabbing, turncoat _rat_…

_James…Lily…I'm sorry…he's back, and I can't stop him…I'm not strong enough…I didn't escape from that place soon enough…what have I done?_

"…You will come with me to the hospital wing." Dumbledore's speaking drew him suddenly from his tortured thoughts. He lifted his head from his hands, and he spied the Headmaster standing near the partially-ajar door as he addressed Harry. " I do not want you returning to the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some peace…Sirius, would you like to stay with him?"

A swift nod; he rose to his feet, and then, swiftly, succumbed to the familiar sensation of the fur spreading in swathes across his barrel-chest, his aching arms, his gaunt flanks, bringing forth to light the hollow-ribbed, bright-eyed canine that had watched the third task from afar what seemed like so long ago...

Side-by-side the three abandoned the solitude of the study; Harry's hand rested lightly, unconsciously, upon his ruff as they walked, and he leaned against the boy's leg, offering what little comfort he could.

There were people waiting for them in the hospital wing when they arrived—the Weasleys, he recognized—Bill and Molly—with Harry's closest friends, Ron and Hermione. The eyes of the latter darted to him swiftly, then away…grateful for their lack of attention, he forced his hackles—arching with anxiety—to lower once more, and he dipped his head.

Dumbledore spoke, his voice seeming no more than a wheedling rumble. Molly answered, her tone strained, though the words again drifted past him. He surveyed his godson keenly as Harry disappeared behind one of the curtains to change.

The moment Harry had vanished from sight, Hermione approached the large, wolfish animal, tentatively. He wagged his tail low, encouraging her, and she knelt, resting one arm across his withers. She met his eyes—wise, unafraid—and half-smiled.

" There was a dog in Hagrid's pumpkin patch." She whispered. " He saw it while he was leaving." She glanced furtively toward Molly, toward Bill, and then turned back to him and lowered her voice. " Somehow, I knew it was you…watching over him." Timidly, softly, she added, " Thank you."

He thought he liked this witch; there was something very Lily-like about her.

Molly Weasley summoned them all to the bedside then; with a swift glance his way, she began to pull up chairs for those gathered. He seated himself at the bedside, near the boy's head, and set his eyes vigilantly upon Harry's drawn, tense face.

" I'm all right." Harry assured them all, his voice still curiously flat. " Just tired."

The potion took affect almost immediately after Madam Pomfrey administered it—" You'll need to drink this all up, Harry, it's a potion for a dreamless sleep."—within moments, the boy was silent and slumbering.

Molly Weasley—her arms crossed upon her ample waist—began to nod off, as well, after the first hour passed; Hermione had slumped sideways, her head on Ron's shoulder, a trickle of spittle dribbling from the corner of her mouth as she dozed. Ron seemed acutely embarrassed at their contact, his neck shining red, but after several minutes of enduring Hermione's closeness, he, too, began to grow heavy about the lids.

Bill rose, after some time in silence, and, seeming to find no reason to justify his actions to what he assumed to be no more than a mere Muggle-pet, he departed.

Left alone to his own thoughts, the massive dog simply watched Harry, and thought.

The times in which he had considered vanishing for good had been numerous, of late; he knew that the Ministry was still searching for him with vengeance, and that, by drawing Harry and the others into his presence, he was endangering them as well. If they were caught in association with him, they would likely be tried for treason to the magical world…harboring a known fugitive, or in the least keeping secret his whereabouts…it was a dangerous line they walked, even more dangerous than his, as half man, half beast.

And yet he knew…knew in the deepest part of his soul, where he was still entirely human and untarnished by the cruelties of the world…that he owed this boy more than he could possibly express. The boy was his reason for living…his revenge unattainable, his friends gone, his life in ruins. This boy…this remarkably strong, fearless boy…was the key to everything; to defeating the Dark Lord, to bringing peace, to his own redemption.

But could he truly keep his promise to James, when he himself was a danger? When his name and Voldemort's were still spoken intertwined by the greater portion of the magical world?

He wondered.

Would it be better for the boy if he was simply no more? If he ceased all correspondence, abandoned all communication…withdrew from all of their lives forever?

_No_. He decided at last. _I promised James. I _promised. _They'll need every able body to go to war against Voldemort. There's no turning back now…I've come much too far. Harry is my charge…I swore to James that Voldemort would never touch him again. I've already failed once…I won't fail them again._

He rose clumsily to his feet, shaking himself heavily.

There were things to be done…plans to be made. He would present himself to Dumbledore as a resource. He would do anything they asked…anything to bring Voldemort back down to his knees. And…_Wormtail_. He bared his teeth at the name. He was going to rend that traitor limb from limb.

With a final glance at Ron and Hermione—and Molly, soundly asleep—he turned toward the door.

" S…Sirius…"

The low voice was barely a breath, barely a whisper…but he heard. He paused, glanced over his great, shaggy-furred shoulder.

Harry was watching him, seeming to be nearly-asleep, his bright green eyes shadowed beyond his glasses.

" Sirius." He repeated, his voice muffled, as though he spoke in the depths of slumber…yet still, his tone pleaded, pleaded desperately. " Sirius, don't go…"

Compassion swept through him in a choking, suffocating tide. With a swift glance toward the door…checking for Bill's return…he transformed soundlessly back into his human form. Moving swiftly yet still silently past the chair where Molly Weasley slept, mumbling lightly to herself, he sat gently on the edge of the bed, and touched Harry's shoulder…gently.

" I'm not going anywhere." He assured the boy. " I'll be right here when you wake up…I swear."

Harry's face relaxed.

" Yeah…"

He was silent once more.

Shaking his head as he rose, Sirius removed Harry's glasses from his sweat-dampened, ashen face, placing them upon the bedside table—and, compelled by a notion stronger than any he had ever felt, he leaned forward and gently embraced his godson.

And then he stepped away, and transformed; not a moment too soon, it seemed, for no more had his fur completely covered his face than Bill's head poked into the room. He surveyed the situation—analyzed—then nodded, satisfied, and retreated.

Sirius crept back to the bedside, knowing—somehow, with an intuitive sense, perhaps born of his own experiences with the forgetfulness-inducing tendencies of the sleeping potion —that Harry would not recall what had transpired in the past few moments when he fully awakened, at a later time.

Seating himself at the side of the bed, Sirius lowered his great, shaggy head onto the edge of Harry's pillow…and shifted slightly with surprise as, unconsciously, Harry's hand came to rest against his massive shoulder.

Relaxing within a moment, Sirius gazed unblinkingly into the slumbering face of his godson…the closest thing to a true son he had ever had.

_Sleep, Harry. _He spoke the words within his mind. _I'm watching over you._

All around him, people—people that he had come to care for, in strange ways, throughout the past year—continued to breathe in silent sleep. For the moment—for one blissful moment of redemption—he was their guardian. In this dark, dark night when it seemed nothing would ever be right again, he alone stood vigil here.

The thought exhilarated him, driving all manner of weariness from his body.

_This is _my_ task. This is what _I _am destined to do._


	2. Everything Changes l R&Hr l

_--Why then was it so difficult for her to know her own heart?--_

_Nearly twenty-four hours after setting Buckbeak and Sirius free, Hermione makes the best mistake of her life._

_Setting: Prisoner of Azkaban, during the final chapter_

_Characters: Hermione, Ron, Harry_

_Pairings: Copious amounts of Ron/Hermione_

_Rating: PG-13_

_Warnings: Slight AU, mild OOC depending on how you look at it, and some tongue-in-mouth._

_Spoilers: Through book three_

* * *

_Brevis Fabula II:_

--Everything Changes --

* * *

It's a simple story, and if she's told him once, she's told him a thousand times.

But Ron just can't seem to get enough of this tale, and so she retells it once more; seated on the edge of his bed, careful not to disturb his injured leg—she's read in various books, including _Magical Maladies: When Inhuman Healing Goes Wrong_, that when bones are being reset by magic, it's very important not to touch them—she finds herself concluding her telling once more.

"…So Harry and I ran back inside, and Dumbledore was _there, _waiting for us." She gestures over her shoulder toward the half-ajar door gliding backwards and forwards lazily on its well-oiled hinges in the entryway of theschool infirmary, through which Harry disappeared moments before, presumably tired of hearing her latest recounting of their previous night's adventure.

Ron—his freckled face drawn, anxious and slightly jealous—leans back against the pillows, and his eyes are cast into a defined shade of despair.

" Wish I'd been with you. I'd've given Snape a good look at my face…slimy git, it'd serve him right to see something worth being scared of." He mutters, reaching down as though to massage his injured leg. She slaps his hand away, earning herself an affronted glare and what seems like the possibility of a great telling-off…before Ron realizes that her witty comebacks will likely include references to literatures written in seven different languages, dating back thousands of years, and he lets the subject slide.

" Then you'd've gotten us all in very serious trouble if you _had _been there, Ron." She chides him in regard to his earlier statement, dragging him into what appears to be an even deeper state of depression. Noticing the withdrawn look written upon his face, she sighs. " Oh, for goodness sake, _stop _being so sensitive! I told Harry this, too—if we let ourselves be seen by our past or future selves, then we're breaking almost _all _of the magical laws set down by the very wizards who…"

" But Harry got away with it, didn't he?" Ron interrupts as he sulks…a very out-of-character thing for him to do. " When he summoned that Patronus."

She holds her tongue, saying nothing.

Bright shafts of early-morning sunlight arc downward through the high windows spaced evenly upon the walls, warming her into a drowsy state through her flush-red sweater, dusted gray with the filth of the Shrieking Shack. Seated with her hands clasped upon her lap, unshod feet resting against the floor of the Hospital Wing, her socks muffling the erratic _thump, thump_ motions of her gently swinging feet, she leans forward at a slight angle and tries very hard not to doze.

The previous night, she recalls, had been very restless for her, full of strange dreams and wandering thoughts. After devouring what seemed like his body weight and then some in rich, sweet chocolate, Harry had nodded off, leaving her alone to be questioned by Ron for nearly an hour before the pain of his slowly resetting bone—Madam Pomphrey, the kind but strict school nurse, had told them that the angle of Ron's broken bone had been such that it would take a great deal of careful maneuvering and a copious amount of time to be certain that it was reset to its exact and proper location—and the exhaustion of their ordeals that day had taken hold, and he too, had drifted.

She had sat then, just as she sat now—poised on the edge of his bed, though in those late and solitary hours, she had been curled with her knees to her chest, arms locked around her ankles—watching his face as her mind wandered.

He had looked so different last night…or perhaps it had just been the deceit of her mind. Yet in those waning-evening hours, with the pale moonlight casting his face into silver radiance, highlighting each small droplet of sweat that—in the midst of strange, dark nightmares—had rolled effortlessly across his ashen face, she had thought he as something close to _beautiful_.

No. Perhaps that was not the right word, not the right word at all. He had been very _ethereal_. Untouchable, a stranger in the hold of the night that set them apart from one another. And she had only begun to consider then how brave he had been during all they had endured—broken in strange places, confused, unwittingly deceived by his own family, betrayed by his heart…and still he had shown true Gryffindor valor in allowing himself to be tethered to that repulsive man, Peter Pettigrew…he had nearly _died _to ensure the outcome of justice…

She had leaned forward then, on impulse, to brush his reddish hair—dyed auburn-tipped silver in the moonlight—from his faintly furrowed brow. And then she had leaned down, and whispered softly in his ear, " I'm very proud of you, Ron."

And then—blushing scarlet at her own out-of-character actions—she had retreated to the sanctuary of her bed in the corner, and had lain awake for some time, staring cantankerously upward, trying with all of her might to decipher the subtle churnings of her own heart.

What was it that Professor Lupin had said to her, in the terrible Shrieking Shack all those hours before? Oh, yes…" You're the smartest witch of your age that I've ever met, Hermione."

But if she was so smart, then, so wise to the workings of the magical world…if the words he had spoken were truth, why then was it so difficult for her to know her own heart?

" Hermione?" Ron's voice draws her abruptly from her thoughts; she straightens upon the bed, giving a small gasp of surprise, as she is forcibly tugged from the presence of the full-moon night, into the brightly lit chamber awash with daylight. Ron is studying her, curious, and then he reaches out and taps the back of her nearest hand. " You alright?"

She follows the indication of his movements and realizes that she's clutching the bed-sheet in tightly-clenched fists, her fingers bone-white and cramped.

" Oh!" She exclaims, and she retracts her hands, massaging the knuckles of her right with the aching fingers of her left, casting a furtive, sidelong glance toward Ron. She can see that he is faintly amused by her strange actions…and still curious.

Climbing quickly to her feet, before he can voice the workings of his inquisitive mind, she brushes her hands irately, swiftly, over the front of her sweater, and turns to him, certain that her eyes are burning, just as her cheeks are.

" Well? Shall we go?" She demands. " Harry will be waiting for us. We'll have to talk to Hagrid…and to Professor Dumbledore…and I've got to see Professor McGonagall about the time-Turner…"

" Not taking on any _more _classes, are you?" Ron teases her lightly, seeming content to let the subject of her less-than-candid behavior slide away between them…but she can see that he still bears a speculative gleam in his eye.

" No, of course not." Hermione replies loftily to his question. " I've decided I'm gong to take a _normal _schedule next year…well, except for Divination, I'll still be dropping that, of course. Everyone _knows_ that's a load ofuseless, trivial misinformation. I'm surprised Professor Dumbledore even keeps that woman instated…"

Realizing at once the error of her words, she strikes her mouth with the open palm of her hand, her face draining of color, as Ron looks on, amused.

" Insulting a teacher worse than knocking one out, Hermione?" He inquires, smugly, referring to the perfectly synchronized attacks that he, Harry, and Hermione had dealt to their arch-nemesis of a professor, Snape, during their prolonged visit to the Shrieking Shack the night before.

With some effort she detaches her hand from her lips, and glares at him, her eyes full of scathing reproach.

" Oh, shut up, Ron." She snaps, annoyed by his banter. " I'm only calling that class _useless_ because I can't think of anything _worse _to say without cursing it." She inhales deeply several times, growing more irate as his face splits into a bright grin; he knows how she hates Divination.

" Well, I think it's great." He retorts, pushing himself up onto his elbows and fixing her with a mischievous glance. " I've personally never slept better than in her classroom…and when Trelawney predicts Harry's untimely death every other lesson, it gets to be rather funny…"

" You sound like Fred and George." She remarks, unsure of whether she's insulting him or offering him high praise; after all, while she doesn't always approve of Ron's easy-going, trouble-making brothers, commonly referred to by the others in their house as simply The Twins, she can't help but admire them for their tenacity…and their insatiable pull towards all things disastrous, though usually in a semi-benign way.

Seeming to read the path of her thoughts, Ron shrugs.

" There are worse people to imitate." He retorts, and then he's dragging himself fully upright and swinging the lower half of his body over the side of the bed, groaning softly as he shifts his injured leg.

" Ron, what are you doing?" Hermione demands, and she reaches out, once more on impulse, this time to brace his shoulders, to hold him down.

" You said we needed to go, didn't you?" He replies shortly, meeting her gaze with a familiar stubborn glint in his eyes. " Well, I'm getting ready to go. Now get off of me." He shrugs her hands away, and she steps back, mildly affronted, her hands burning ridiculously with the sensation of touching him…

_Oh, stop it! _She berates herself mentally.This was only Ron…her best friend, just like Harry. The brief contact meant nothing, nothing at all…

She can clearly see the effort it costs him simply to sit upright; he winces spasmodically, and touches his injured leg, his face a contorted mask of angered disbelief.

" Why is this taking so long to _heal_?" He bites the words out between clenched teeth. She doubles over, hands resting on knees, attempting to catch his eye as he turns his head aside.

" Madam Pomphrey said that you shouldn't have been walking on it…and you only did more harm than good when you fell, while you were chained to Pettigrew…" Her voice tapers away as she remembers the sight of him, lying spread-eagled upon the ground, his eyes sightless, his chest heaving…remembers the brief moment that she thought him dead, and the terrible numbness that had consumed her _in_ that moment…

" Were you scared for me?" He inquires, softly, and when she levels her gaze aside she finds him watching, curious once more.

She straightens, angered with herself for the deceptive force of her wandering emotions, her shoulders square and her spine stiff.

" Don't be stupid, Ron." She mutters. " Of course I was worried. You're one of my best friends, after all…"

He turns away, frowning.

" But you weren't _scared_ for me."

She has no reply.

" Well." Ron's gangly shoulders heave after a brief moment of silence, and he begins to climb rather awkwardly to his feet. Restraining a commanding comment, she steps toward him, but he wards her off with his hands held out before him. " They said the worse side affect I'd have is something like Jelly-Legs and some nausea. And I feel fine."

She steps back, reluctantly, glowering toward him with a savage light in her eyes that dims as the seconds wear on and he finds his balance. With a triumphant smile toward her that does not quite reach his eyes, he shrugs.

" See? No big deal."

He steps forward—and stumbles, near to collapse.

" Ron!" Hermione darts toward him, catching him and preventing his near-fall with a firm hand on his chest, her other palm square behind his shoulder blade. " _See?_ You have to take this _slowly_."

" Slowly. Right." He echoes, his face ashen. " _Blimey_, this hurts. Harry'll have to give Sirius a talking to about this."

" Oh, he didn't _mean _to break your leg, Ron." She replies, tersely. " And what's more, he probably saved our lives…imagine if we'd run into Lupin on the grounds last night, with the moon out, while we were on our way back from Hagrid's!" She shivered at the memory of the great, glistening-fanged wolf that had nearly been the death of them all ,whether directly or otherwise, during the previous night.

" I was joking, Hermione." Ron replies, quietly.

She sighs, hating these sudden, dark lulls that pull him away from her. Twisting around to his side, she draws his right arm around her shoulders, and loops her left arm around his waist.

" Come on. Let's go." She murmurs, her voice faint. His face is determined as he nods, and awkwardly—together—they make their way toward the infirmary doorway.

Thy manage to navigate the long stretch of corridor that is the greater portion of the Hospital Wing—and the narrow doorway that leads from it—with relative ease, moving in their gangly-legged formation, and she is aware of what an odd pair they must make; Ron, tall, lanky, his hair a mess of fire tinged gold by sunlight; she, a head shorter, slightly stockier, with her flyaway, unkempt hair and dirt-smudged face. Thankfully, there is no one around to stare at them…no speculative whispers to ghost after them down the halls.

For now, it is only them; him, and her, and the burning sensation wherever her body touches his…

And then, as they reach the mouth of the corridor leading away from the Hospital Wing, Ron halts abruptly. Anxiously, Hermione lifts her head, swiveling it aside, searching for his gaze, fearing he is in pain—but his eyes are full of concentration rather than the agony she expected, and he pulls himself suddenly away from her.

" I think…I'm fine." He says by way of explanation, and she is left standing with one arm curled around empty air, gazing after him as he leans against the wall opposite her, catching his breath, bearing the majority of his weight on his good leg.

After a moment, she drops her arm back to her side, and wonders, distantly, if she's ever read anything in any of the books in the library—and she has read nearly all of them—that would aptly describe what she is feeling now….

After several silent minutes, Ron glances her way, and he grins a grin that knocks her breathless—because she's never seen him smile so freely. With such abandonment, as though his world is suddenly whole and right.

" See? I'm fine." He repeats, his tone satisfied.

" I'm…glad." She whispers. His eyes meet hers, hold—and then, flushing scarlet, he glances away.

" Right." He mutters, as she turns her gaze to the well-worn, greatly-trodden path beneath their feet. " Let's get on with it."

She nods, swiftly, glad for a diversion from the sudden awkwardness kindled between them, and she moves ahead of him, toward the antechamber before them that branches off into several hallways on either side—a heartbeat later, Ron recalls her.

" Hermione, wait!"

She turns on her heel abruptly to face him—and he is right there, bent double with his hands on his knees, so near that their lips brush as she turns.

And, in a motion unexpected by either of them, her tongue darts out to trace the shape of his mouth in passing.

Hermione gasps at her own primal daring, her face coloring, and she retreats a step, her hands covering her half-parted lips once more—she can feel the jagged breaths knifing against her palms—gazing at Ron with horror brimming in her eyes. He seems thoroughly taken aback—eyes dazed, he wipes the back of his hand gingerly along his mouth…and blinks.

" Oh." He mutters.

" Ron, I'm so, so sorry!" Hermione cries the words between her tightly interlaced fingers. " I didn't mean to…!"

" Hermione…"

" It was an accident, I swear! I mean, I shouldn't've…" Perhaps it would not be such a terrible thing, she thinks, if it wasn't for the fact that she dreamed of nothing but him last night, and that she's _not _sorry…that instead she thinks that maybe Hermione Granger doing something daring for once isn't the world's end, and that his lips tasted sweet, like chocolate, and that she feels like she's going to become just like Lavender Brown and the Patil sisters and every other girl in Hogwarts who seems to be intent on finding a handsome wizard to snog…

And then the pain is real, because she realizes that she's just alienated him in a way that their constant bickering never could…and that she's never going to feel the burning of his skin against hers, and that he's going to hate her for this…

She buries her face in her hands, and she weeps.

" Hermione!" Ron's voice cuts through her dry, wracking sobs; she knows how much he hates blatant displays of emotion. " Hermione, stop! It's okay!"

" N-No, it's _n-not!" _She spits the words back as forcefully as she can. " I sh-shouldn't have…I-I didn't _mean_…oh, Ron, you must _hate _me…"

" Hate you?" He demands, his voice slightly shaky. " Are you off your rocker?" And she feels a gentle warmth between her hands; his fingers twine between hers, forcing her to remove her face from her palms, to raise her eyes unwillingly to his—to attempt to decipher the emotion there.

She cannot imagine what her face must look like; tears carving channels through the dark smudges, her eyes red with lack of sleep and with emotion, and she feels utterly abysmal for losing her composure over such a trivial thing…

" I don't hate you." Ron repeats, suddenly, and he gazes upon her as though he's never seen her before. And—tentatively—his hand lifts away from hers where they hang, clasped, against her torso…and he brushes her smudged cheek with his thumb, his eyes—strangely hopeful—holding hers. " Actually, I was thinking…if you wanted to kiss me again…"

She doesn't give herself time to second-guess, to truly _choose_. The next moment her body is flush against his, her right arm twined around his neck, her left hand buried in his thick, unwashed locks, and her lips are moving in silent rhythm with his. And his arms are warm against her ribs, his hands on her waist, as if he cannot decide whether to pull her closer or leave her be.

And then he gives over, releases himself to that side she's never seen before, and his arms are around her, his lips parting hers, their breath mingling, their tongues just hardly touching…

And then he shifts his weight to his injured leg, and overbalances; they break apart as, with a hoarse yell, he topples onto his back, flat, pulling her down atop him, his hands once more on her waist.

Hermione is laughing; laughing freely and joyously, for no honest reason other than for how wonderful it feels. She buries her face against his shoulder as his hands move to grip her upper arms, and she laughs and laughs until there are tears in her eyes.

" Was I really that bad?" Ron demands, affronted. And she simply shakes her head, giggling now rather than laughing…and she raises her head from his shoulder, blinking back the mirthful tears.

He's watching her, nervous, waiting.

She reaches out, and brushes his unkempt hair once more from his forehead; his fingers never unlock from around her skin.

" No. That was wonderful." She sighs. " Not like anything else I've ever…" She trails off, and his brows lift.

" Better than reading _Hogwarts: A History?_"

" Much." She replies with a decisive nod.

" Better than spending a whole day in the library?" He inquires as he pulls himself upright and shifts her until she is kneeling beside him…and his hands are still firm around her upper arms.

" Infinitely."

His eyes are calculative.

" Not bad for a first kiss, eh?" He probes. " Was it even better than getting a super-rare copy of '_Everything You Wanted To Know About Transfiguration, But Were Too Afraid To Ask?_'"

She rolls her eyes.

" Don't push your luck, Ron."

He chuckles, weakly, and then—releasing her at last—-he climbs awkwardly to his feet, and offers her his hand.

" Well, shall we get a move on?" He inquires sociably. " Harry won't wait forever." She smiles brightly up at him, takes his hand, and allows him to pull her to her feet.

For a moment they stand, regarding one another, and then Ron cants his head aside, his eyes burning with uncertainty.

" Were you _really _not worried about me last night, Hermione?" He demands abruptly.

Despite their recent actions, she cannot help but burn with a blush at his serious query, and she ducks her head, inhaling deeply.

" _Of course _I was, Ron." She whispers. " I was so scared…but you were very brave, you know. Braver than I was."

" Only because I had people I wanted to protect." He replies, simply.

She raises her eyes to his—and offers him a tentative smile.

" Thank you." She murmurs.

And then the magic of the moment is broken, and they both glance away.

" I still think you're completely crazy." Ron voices after a brief pause. Her face growing hot with anger that's not _really _anger, Hermione swings her head around to meet his eyes once more.

" And I still think _you _are an insufferable idiot who doesn't spend enough time reading books." She snaps back, playfully.

They grin at each other.

" Nothing changes, then?" Ron attempts to verify.

" Nothing." Hermione agrees, firmly.

But as they wend their way down the corridor—shoulders barely brushing on each alternate step—she runs her tongue lightly along her lips, and smiles.

_Everything's changed, Ron. _Everything.

_You just don't know it yet._


	3. The Walk l Sirius&Lily l

* * *

_The Walk_

* * *

—When you feel that everything going wrong and there's nothing left to live for, I'll be there to pick you up again; we'll walk the road together.—

* * *

Sometimes he walks with her.

Never far and never fast, for they really have nowhere to go. Usually it's chance that brings them together; chance and a bit of luck, as The Map would have it…but he's not complaining. He doesn't mind being around her, because she truly astounds him, in ways even he cannot begin to describe. Maybe it's because she's so different from all of the other girls; she's not loud and she's not pushy, she's not overbearingly eager in her classes, but she's bright. And she's brilliant, and she has a smile that light up the darkest of dark days. And sometimes he fancies she likes to be with him, too…that maybe she knows that he's a prat, and an idiot, but that deep down he's really not those things, that he's just hiding from something.

But she's a Muggle-born, and he's a pure-blood, and they don't talk about those things; she doesn't say that she's misunderstood, and he doesn't say that it's so wrong for him to understand her.

Instead they walk.

He doesn't know when these walks became ritual for them; sometime in their second year, maybe. Or maybe not. It just seems that their paths cross frequently, and always have—cross, but never intertwine, because he's seen the way his best friend looks at her and he knows not to interfere. But then he can't deny to himself that he is captivated by her; the pale hue of her skin, the rosy patches dotting her cheeks on cold days, the way her green eyes sparkle when she talks about Potions, her best subject, or complains about Charms, her worst.

He doesn't speak very often when they walk…not at first. He's content to just listen to her, and to watch her walking, her books gripped tightly to her chest, her face relaxed in a wide grin as she speaks so plainly to him, like a dam has opened and everything she keeps sealed behind her full, pink lips is rushing forth. And he feels honored that she discloses so much to him…honored, because he's never seen her talk to another boy like this before, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he stands a chance.

Sometimes, though, he does talk to her, and for once in his life he's a serious as his namesake. He tells her about the fights at home, escalating summer by summer. He tells her how scared he is for his younger brother, how hurt he is by the way his mother slanders him…but he never, ever tells her what they call her when they speak of her, because he knows that protecting her from that kind of pain is the most important thing, and he can never, ever fail at that. Never.

They walk most often in the winter; he sometimes fancies that she waits for him, in the shadowed arches and the empty corridors, though when he asks her she denies it. They spend a good deal of time on the grounds. He tries to explain Quidditch to her, unsuccessfully, and she attempts to render the more complicated aspects of Wolfsbane to him…also unsuccessfully. But he secretly tucks away the knowledge she gives and the sound of her voice, so that he can hear her speak again when he's alone at night.

They walk so often through the snow, leaving a trail of footsteps behind them.

* * *

It's their seventh year now, and they don't walk as often.

Sometimes he sees her from a distance, and she's almost always with his best mate, and he feels this terrible, terrible pain in his heart that's almost jealousy but isn't, because he loves his friends with a fire of loyalty that is all-consuming and he wants them to be happy.

So he laughs and he smiles and he plays along in his denial, and he pretends that with each brush of their hands, each secretive look that passes between his two closest friends, he's not dying on the inside. He avoids her when he can, because sometimes she stares at him and she looks sympathetic, and he can't bear to be pitied.

He pretends he doesn't care when he walks in on them in an empty classroom; he pretends that he doesn't wish he was in his best friend's place, and he pretends that his world is utterly whole.

But sometimes she gives him this look, when they're in a crowded classroom or the Great Hall, with a thousand other people around them, and suddenly it's only him, and it's only her, and like she can see right through him, just like she used to.

But she doesn't speak to him any more. She shares her secrets with others. She's changing—growing more extroverted and getting more skilled at Charms, and he's growing up too and realizing that his family is even more be-damned then he used to think, only now he doesn't have her to talk to about it.

The winter comes and goes, and he walks alone.

* * *

He's not surprised when she tells him she's going to get married.

He's sitting at the edge of the lake that laps at the back of his family's summer home. They've long since abandoned it, preferring to remain at Grimmauld Place, locked in the studies full of Dark Arts books, but he likes the outdoors. He like the clear water and the open air and the freedom, and sometimes he brings his friends here with him.

It's twilight now, and he knows she's coming because he can hear her soft, even breathing and he can smell her, and when she sits beside him—dressed in a Muggle gown that is a stunning pale blue and looks so right on her—he shifts aside so their arms don't touch. His feet trail in the water and his head is thrown back; he's not touching her, he's not looking at her, and the space between them yawns wider than ever.

" I'm getting married." She states, apropos of nothing, as they gaze out over the water, toward the darkening horizon.

He nods without looking at her.

" To James."

Nod.

" He wants you to be his best man."

" Can't he tell me that himself?"

She kicks off her sandals and dips her feet into the chilly water, shivering, and he feels bad for snapping at her.

" Sorry."

" Forget it."

A pause spans between them. They shift their feet restlessly through the water, creating ripples that fan out and away, and neither of them speaks. He can't help thinking that this isn't how it should be. But then he remembers that things have changed; he's not her friend, he's going to be nothing more to her than her husband's best mate, because they're not innocent school-children and he's not good enough for her and they're not meant to be.

" Why did _you_ tell me?" He asks of her.

She knows to what he is referring.

" Because James wouldn't think about your feelings."

" I don't care if you get married. It's great. I'm happy for you…for you both."

She gives him that look that says she knows he's not being entirely truthful.

" You're terrible liar, Sirius Black. I know you care."

He doesn't reply.

" Remember when we used to go for walks?" She presses him to talk, but he doesn't want to, because talking to her hurts too much.

" Yeah."

" We don't do that anymore."

" Well, you're getting married, Lily, aren't you? We can't be friends like that anymore."

" Can't? Or won't?"

He ignores her.

She gets to her feet without a word, and walks away. And he knows he's done the right thing by putting that distance between them, but he wonders, if it's right thing, why it feels so terribly wrong.

Tonight, it is her who walks alone.

* * *

He finds it very hard to concentrate on the wedding day.

He's standing near the altar, and he's talking to the others like he's not worried about anything, but there's this feeling in his stomach like he's about to jump from a very high height. Because he hasn't spoken a word to her in six months and he hasn't looked her in the eye for nearly that and because, deep down, he wishes she was going to marry him instead of his best friend. And he doesn't want to think that way.

But his joy in the moment is overshadowed by the knowledge that he can't tell her that after this he won't be able to come back; that the remnants of his family have disowned him for attending a Muggle-born's wedding, that after tonight he'll be left alone and in the shadows because James will have her and she will have James, and nothing else will matter anymore.

There are a hundred women in the room, some that were invited to the proceedings and some that weren't, and many of them are watching him keenly as he broods, but as the music starts and the doors at the far end of the cathedral open, his eyes are only for her. And he can't believe how beautiful she looks…like something he had only ever dreamed of.

But she's not looking at him; she only sees James. And all during the vows she doesn't look away from her betrothed, doesn't spare a passing glance to the friend that's slowly fading away into the background behind them all, destitute and abandoned.

Then the preacher says the words, and suddenly they're kissing, and it's like being in that classroom all over again; and then he turns and looks away, but as he does James spins her around, and her eyes meet his, and she's smiling so brightly that she's suddenly become that innocent little girl again, lost in a magical world of snow, her footsteps marked beside his, her deepest fears disclosed to his most secret heart, and then, unbelievably, when James picks her up and carries her down the isle, he's laughing with her.

And he sees that, maybe, things don't have to end this way.

And that day he speaks to her for the first time in so long, and they laugh together, and then he leads her to the floor and they dance. And he's content to hold her for the first and final time, and her arms are around his neck, brushing against his hair, and he fancies that she's enjoying this as much as he is.

She kisses him on the cheek before she goes back to her new husband, and the fissures in his heart tear and ache, but he doesn't let on, because being with her again is so wonderful it's nearly heaven.

He walks off of the dance floor with a smile on his face.

* * *

It is she who comes to him with the proposal.

He's sitting in the drawing room of her home, listening to her and James tending to little Harry, and he's trying not to think about how much he still wishes it was him in that kitchen, that it was his family instead of James'. And he feels so cruel and sick and evil because he knows James would never think that way about him.

He's twirling an empty butterbeer bottle between his hands and staring at the ornate rug beneath his feet when she comes in and perches herself on the edge of his chair. He ignores her until he can't anymore, until the tiny coughing noises she's making grab his attention, and he sighs without looking around at her.

" What is it, Lily?"

" James and I have been talking." She begins, sounding hesitant and very much like her timid self of old. She rests her hand on his shoulder as she continues, " We're worried about Voldemort. Dumbledore says that someone…someone told him that he might come after our family. And there are things Voldemort doesn't know about…things about Harry that are…special."

Despite his grudging feelings of deep misery whenever he's with their family for too long, he must agree with her; sometimes, when he's looking at Harry or when they're alone together, when he's entertaining his godson and making him laugh in a way that's so reminiscent of his father…he feels a little uneasy, a little on edge, like there's a storm brewing between him and Harry that's just not ready to make itself heard yet.

He grunts noncommittally as Lily falls silent, and then she concludes softly, almost hopefully, " James and I want you to be our Secret-Keeper."

He's not at all certain what to feel when she says this; something draws him to his feet, away from her, and then he's pacing, pacing, his mind whirling and his heart pounding, because he suddenly knows that they're all in real danger and that she wants him to hold their lives in his hands…  
" I can't. Lily, I can't…" His voice is desperate. " I'll screw up, I'll get you all killed…you, and James, and little Harry…"

" We don't want anyone else." Lily explains firmly. " We don't trust anyone else." She's on her feet now, and she's following him as he paces in laps around the room, and it's like some twisted echo of the days when they used to walk together.

He pauses before the large picture-window, its face rain-splattered, and he turns to face her with anguish in his eyes…because she's so beautiful, and so innocent, and so scared, and he wants to be the hero she needs.

" What if I can't keep your secrets?" He whispers, and she looks away, as though his words have stabbed her deeply. " What if I let you die?"

And then she's doing something unexpected and wonderful; she's touching him, her hands on his face, and her sparkling eyes are just before him, and she looks so stern and forbidding and yet so unbelievably real and warm…

" You won't."

" What if I don't have a choice?"

" There's always a choice.

" But _you _couldn't choose. You didn't choose _me_."

And he feels so horrible for saying it, but her eyes are like the most powerfully concocted truth serum, and he can't lie to those eyes…

" I _did _choose you." She's whispering now. " I chose to save your life."

" How?"

" One day, you'll understand."

And somehow, he finds himself agreeing to her demands as he pulls her into an embrace and thinks that she smells so sweet, just like she did that night beside the lake. And she's speaking to him, confessing to him like she hasn't since they were both innocent youths with nothing between them but an oh-so-easily-breached empty space.

" I'm scared, Sirius."

" So am I, Lily."

They don't walk away from each other tonight.

* * *

When he awakens that night, somehow, he knows the world has ended.

He's not sure how he knows, or what is driving him to this conclusion, but it's like a part of him has died and the edges of a black hole in his heart are ripping and tearing from the inside, and he can't breathe, can't think, because he's been dreaming horrible dreams and seeing things that aren't real, can't be, but somehow he knows that they are…

And the whole while that he throws on his clothes and runs from his house, he's thinking that he shouldn't have switched, that something's gone wrong and he just wants to see her, to see him, to see Lily and James and little helpless Harry…

And then he's at their home and he's watching the great giant Hagrid pulling a small, white bundle from the flaming ruins, and all he can think is that they're not dead, that some horrible mistake has been made, that he's still dreaming or close to it and he'll wake any second, _wake up, wake up, Sirius Black, wake up…_

And then he's shaking, and the whole world is shaking, because the moment he sees Harry with a bleeding gash on his forehead he knows, knows that he isn't dreaming and that it's really real, and he doesn't hear anything Hagrid says to him, barely realizes that he's offering his own means of transport to the man who wants to take Harry away forever. He only asks to hold Harry once—and then he's staring down into the face of that precious bundle, that one thing that was always a reminder to him of what he'd lost…and those eyes, those vivid green eyes are staring back at him, and he can't even breathe…

And then Harry's gone, and Hagrid is gone, and he's alone. And he's picking his way through the rubble, searching for something he doesn't want to find, but has to find all the same…

And then he sees James, buried beneath the rubble, and he's feeling the numb disbelief starting to fade. Then he's ripping the tattered shreds of that oh-so-familiar drawing-room away from his best mate, and he's kneeling down, and shaking him, and _Please, God, don't let James be dead, he's my best friend, it's my fault, James, wake up…_but he's not speaking, because somehow if he says it, it'll all be real, and some part of him still believes that it can't be, that it isn't anything more than a dream…

And then he's on his feet again, and he staggering through their once-upon-a-time house, and he's searching again with a fever of need that terrifies him. And as he's pawing through the ruins he realizes that he never let go, and that nothing ever changed, and that he's always been her same friend from their school days and that he just needs to see her smiling face again…

And then he's found her, and he knows it's her because she's pinned beneath the remains of the crib, and God knows she would be wherever Harry was, defending him.

And then her body is in his arms and he's holding her to his chest and he's begging, pleading with her as he's rocking back and forth and weeping…

" Lily…"

_This isn't happening…_

" Lily, please…"

_No, no, this isn't real…_

" Lily, come on, open your eyes…"

_This is all my fault…_

" Lily…I'm begging you…"

_Now I understand_.

But she's gone now, she's gone, and it's all his fault, and she's not coming back, and James is gone too, and suddenly his world is dark and lightless and he knows that the meaning of his existence is over.

Five minutes later, he walks away, more alone than he has ever been before.

* * *

It's Christmastime fourteen years later when they take their first walk together, just the two of them.

It's a special moment but somehow less reminiscent because he's a great, shaggy black dog this time, who can't speak and can't communicate and can't say how much this reminds him of a precious and faded time in his past when everything in his world was so incredibly right...

Only this time instead of Lily it's Harry he's walking with, that wonderful boy with his father's hair and his father's laugh and his mother's gleaming eyes, and somehow he feels like it's a placebo, an echo of a path he's walked before, only it's twisting now in ways he can't explain.

And since he's mute, he's not talking much; he's just listening, listening to Harry as he divulges all of his secrets…how he's more or less excelling in Defense Against the Dark Arts but he's failing Potions, and he's so unlike his mother in that respect that for a moment the great black shaggy dog feels a very human emotion: grief.

And then Harry's telling him how he can't stop thinking about his parents, about how he wishes he could remember them, and there's pain in both of them because the memories have faded, and there's just the echo of their cold, dead faces left behind…

And he wishes suddenly that he could say that there was love there, love enough for sacrifice; that she had chosen a path that had torn them apart, but had saved his life, that she cared for him so much, and that when they were together she wasn't a cursed Muggle-born and he wasn't a cursed Pure-Blood, and they were just Lily Evans and Sirius Black, as opposite as night and day but not really so different, just leaving a trail of footprints on history's powered white face…

But he can't say it, because he's afraid he'll never say it right.

And then, when the emotion becomes too much, and he whimpers, Harry's shockingly green eyes are suddenly upon him, and he feels like he's being stripped of all the pretenses, and that, for the first time in so long, he's seeing _her_ again through the eyes of her son who was never quite normal.

And in those moments, it's like he's walking with her again.

* * *

He isn't sure what to feel as he steps—or did he fall?—through that great, shimmering veil, to the Other Side.

But the world here is strangely white, and somehow he knows he's dead. But he's not scared, because where he's standing there are others all around him, shadows gradually gaining form, and death suddenly feels like another life.

And even though he doesn't want to leave Harry behind, and even though he still has things to live for, he steps into death with a confident smile and an easy swagger to his stride. And he passes through what feels like memory and hope and dreaming and sorrow and loss and rebirth and joy and time itself, and then he's stepping out into a bright new world.

And it's snowing.

And so he stops, and he waits, because he knows what's coming like he's been here before, and he just has to wait, oh-so-patiently…

And then he's seeing his best mate for the first time in fourteen years; James is coming toward him through the mist and wind, and he's young and strong and so very un-dead, and he's smiling so widely that his hazel eyes are crinkled when he speaks.

" You took your time."

" There was someone I had to look after for a while."

" Thank you. I know Harry meant the world to you."

And they embrace, and it feels like forgiveness.

And then James is gone, and he's turning back again to face the cold, white world, because he knows what's coming now and his still heart is bursting with anticipation.

And then she's tripping lightly through the snow, to his side, and she's laughing like everything in her world is right again. And she stops to embrace him, and he thinks she smells just as sweet as always, and he pulls away after a moment to kiss the back of her hand, and her green eyes are so full of love that he feels he could die for the happiness welling inside of him…

" It's just like it used to be, isn't it? You and me, in the snow…as friends…"

He is staring at her, remembering, though not of what she speaks; he's remembering the last time he saw her, and he's suddenly sad.

And she seems to be reading his eyes, seeing his mind, because now she's nodding, very slowly.

" Now do you understand?"

He nods.

" I had things I still needed to do. Loose ends to tie up."

She touches the tip of his nose with her finger.

" Thank you for taking care of my son."

" I would have given my life for him."

" You _did_."

" I wish I had done more."

And then she takes his face in her hands, and their eyes meet, and he's wondering why he couldn't have a world with her and James and Harry in it all together, where they could be happy and alive and _whole_.

And then he realizes that that world could never exist, because James is half of Lily and Lily is half of James, and together in a whole they make Harry. And he's just another piece of the puzzle that doesn't have a place.

" You did everything you had to. You gave Harry the strength to see that he'll never, ever be alone. You were for him what James didn't have a chance to be. I owe you more than anyone. How can I repay you?"

She's beseeching, her eyes plaintive, and he suddenly wonders if there's another gap in the puzzle of their family that hasn't been filled. And he realizes that he didn't want to live without her, and somehow he knows that she didn't want this afterlife without him. And he knows that now that they're together, they can be young and immature and _free _again—in a place where she is not a Muggle-born and he is not a Pure-blood and they're just Lily Potter and Sirius Black and secretly friends—for as long as they want…for as long as forever, as long as kindred souls remain entwined.

He holds her hand and gives her fingers a squeeze.

" How about a walk?"

-FIN-

_That was one of the hardest pieces I've ever written, but the pairing of Sirius and Lily has been growing on me for some time. _


	4. Bittersweet l Harry and James l

_Bittersweet_

It was the evening following the final battle against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and Harry—windswept, aching frightfully, exhausted—sat down in the plush and comfortable sitting room of the Burrow to have a much-longed-after drink with his father.

Harry and James sat facing each other with two tables in between them, in matching armchairs beside the roaring fire; Harry clutched a bottle of firewhiskey in his left hand, James in his right, and they watched each other without speaking…watched each other hungrily, eyes roving, memorizing the planes of the face and the set of the eyes that made them reflections of one another, quietly taking into account all that they had missed over the past sixteen years.

For today James Potter had been resurrected; it was the talk all around Hogwarts, the thing people said the most to him when they came to slap his back and shake his hand and cry on his shoulder—well, all of the adults said it, anyway. Most people his age were too young or too stupid to see how the world had so drastically changed.

And now Harry was content to have a moment with his father, and as the warmth of the fire and the whiskey washed through him, he felt the dizzy urge to speak.

Harry opened his mouth, as did James, convulsively, and they both broke off mid-word to exchange sheepish smiles at the almost-interruption. Harry hid his embarrassment by taking a quick draft of his drink, and James followed suit, perhaps to deaden the awkwardness of the situation.

Harry felt his discomfort ease away as the alcohol spread through his veins; this was his _father _he was going to speak to, after all, someone he had desired to converse with and spend time with and train with and _live with_ for all of his life. Why should he feel so strained about it now?

_Perhaps_, he thought, _it wouldn't be so strange if we weren't so alike, and if we didn't keep almost-interrupting each other_.

The likeness was quite true, Harry admitted to himself; he had never realized until now how very much _alike _he and his father looked. It made him feel strangely proud, and with that pride came, again, that mad urge to speak.

" It's…good to see you." Harry blurted at last, but James spoke at the same time, Harry's words fully masking and muting his, and they leaned away from each other, grimacing.

_Why is this so hard?_

" Harry?"

He thought two voices spoke…one that he faintly recognized and one that he knew full well. He blinked as two redheads entered the room…one seeming to materialize at James' shoulder, the other coming to stand at his.

_Ginny._

" Hey, Ginny." Harry mumbled, turning to face her. It was difficult to wrench his eyes away from the woman at his father's side…because she could only be his mother, could only be Lily Evans Potter, whose love had saved him time and time again throughout the last few perilous years. No one was speaking of her resurrection tonight, but he had known it all along…he had felt it inside of him, even as they reached the Burrow. But this was the first he had seen of her, and now he wanted to feast his eyes on her…the mother he had missed so much...

Because already, he couldn't remember exactly what she looked like…it had only been hours since he had seen her face, just before he had gone to face his death, and yet the details were hazy, undefined…perhaps a result of the drink…

" Harry, are you…?" Ginny's wide eyes fell on the bottle in his hand, and Harry thrust it toward her, wishing she could share in the utter joy he felt at seeing his parents in the room, just beside him, so near he could touch them!

" Wanna drink, Ginny?" Harry's voice sounded slow to his own ears; he offered her a sloppy grin, which she returned reluctantly, and then she pushed the bottle gently away, toward his chest.

" That's okay, Harry, you enjoy it. I expect you've earned it." Her smile was a touch off, not quite reaching her eyes, but there was no lack of love in her gaze as it roved over his face.

" Hey, Ginny, say hello to my parents!" Harry gestured, glancing over his shoulder at his father, who was just turning to stare at him, as well, having been locked in a quiet conversation with Lily. Harry and his father exchanged enormous grins at the site of each other's red-headed loves, and then Harry swiveled back around in the armchair to face Ginny, who was looking between him and his parents with a rather interested gaze.

" Harry, your parents…" She hesitated, searching for the right word, and then her face broke into a slight smile. " They're lovely. Hello, Mister Potter, Missus Potter." She ducked her head rather shyly, then planted a kiss on Harry's head. " I'll see you in the morning, Harry."

" G'night, Ginny." Harry yawned, and then he slumped back around in the chair, just in time to see his mother departing, as well, her hair swaying languidly about her shoulders. This sudden leave-taking surprised Harry…didn't she want to stay, to see him?

" Mum, don't go!" Harry pleaded, reaching out for her, ignoring James, who looked as though he might like to hinder Harry from rising and following his mother. A terrible pain swelled in Harry's heart. " Mum, please, stay…"

She paused a mere foot from James' chair, and glanced back; her eyes were cast red in the light of the fire, and they were inexplicably sad.

" We'll have forever, Harry." She whispered. " Isn't that good enough?"

He didn't try to comprehend her words; he only turned away, ducking his head over his drink, and when he had swallowed another draught and glanced up, she was gone; there was only himself and his father, James watching him carefully, and Harry forced another grin as he raised his bottle. James echoed the smile and lifted his own drink aloft.

" To life." They toasted simultaneously, and then they downed long drafts of the burning ale; Harry felt it smoldering its way into his stomach, and his mind grew a token fuzzier at its passing.

" I missed you, dad." He murmured, without looking up as he spun the firewhiskey bottle in his hands. " I missed you, and mum, and Sirius, and I'm going to miss Remus, too…"

He closed his eyes, and his father's words were like a breath in his mind…

" The dead are never truly gone, Harry, not the ones we love with all of our heart. They live on inside of us, inside of _you_…in every breath you take, that was a gift from your mother…in every spell you cast, that Remus and Dumbledore taught you…in every moment you embrace like it was your last, as Sirius showed you to…in every second you revel in the life that I gave you…we will live on, in that, in your self and everything you hold dear. Harry, you'll never be alone."

Harry felt emotion flooding over him, a heady thing, so much more powerful even than the feelings that had consumed him as he watched the last and greatest enemy crumple like a disused kemp-sack against the stone floor of the Great Hall. It had only been hours ago, but it had been a dying as well…the dying of the old life and the start of the new, the one with Voldemort in it in the one without.

And at this realization, renewed, that his enemy was dead, Harry felt the effects of the firewhiskey burning off. Desperate need pooled in his stomach, and he lifted his head to meet James' burning eyes.

" Miss you." Harry mouthed, and James echoed the words as well.

And then Harry was on his feet, and James was on his, and they stumbled toward one another; and Harry reached out, to touch his father, to embrace him, to feel that empty chasm in his heart molding closed.

His fingers were an inch from his father's…

And then it was as if their hands had hit an invisible, unbreakable barrier; their fingertips could not touch. Harry stood for a moment, meeting his father's anguished eyes, mere inches away, with agony ripping and tearing through him…and then he splayed his hand wide on what seemed to be empty air, and leaned forward until his forehead touched the glass.

The firelight reflected on the single table in the room, flickering across the gilt and the hearth, dancing madly around Harry Potter, alone, and the shimmering mirror that leaned against the wall.


	5. Cake l Lily&James l

The Seven Ways To Bake A Cake

The Seven Ways To Bake A Cake

It was an overcast and chilly January day, and James Potter entered his house with his nose burning red from cold and his eyes streaming; he stomped snow from his boots and unwrapped the much-abused red-and-gold Gryffindor scarf from around his throat as he called into the seemingly-dormant house, " Lils? I'm home!"

He stood for a moment, listening for her response, and when there was none James skulked quietly down the front hall of their Godric's Hollow home, a wicked grin sported across his face; he slipped quietly into the kitchen and found himself facing the back of a very still red-headed woman who was gazing out the window over the sink with both hands folded over her stomach; it was obvious that she hadn't seen him, but, owing to the solemn atmosphere of their home, James decided to surprise his Lils, however rudely.

She screamed two curses that were thankfully not magical and spun around as he wrapped his arms securely about her waist. She raised her hand to punch him, caught sight of his face, and made do with beating his chest angrily.

" Dammit, James!" The normally-docile Lily Evans-Potter swore again, and James laughed, pulling her tightly to him like a tantrum-railing child until she had tired herself of half-heartedly striking him and instead buried her face in his shoulder. Her terrified breathing slowed, and she muttered something that sounded an awful lot like, _Only a Marauder…_

At least she understood his roots.

" What are you doing here?" Lily demanded after a short pause, pulling away to better see his face, though he did not release her from his embrace. " I thought you were working overtime…"

" Sent me home." He shrugged. " Thought we could take the time to set up the baby's room, better do it now while we've got the time…"

" James, I'm only two months along." Lily smiled tenderly and reached up to brush his unruly bangs from his forehead. " The baby isn't due until July, we have plenty of time."

" With Voldemort on the loose, who _knows _how long we have." James muttered, his tone more vicious than frightened. Lily gasped minutely, and her hands flew down to rest against her flat stomach again; James guessed what she had been so absent-mindedly thinking of when he had caught her gazing out the window.

" It's okay. Lils, it's _okay_." James assured her, releasing her waist to grab her wrists. " I won't let him get us. I promise."

Lily's blazing green eyes met his sincere hazel ones for a moment, and then she nodded, and turned back to the sink.

" Well, all of that painting and priming and setting up of the baby's room can wait until a weekend when your good-for-nothing best mate is free; better having Sirius here, doing something useful, than out there carousing and getting drunk every night." She stated baldly. James bristled.

" Hey, for your information, Lils, Sirius is _very _invested in our baby's life. He's already agreed to come over tomorrow to help set up a few things…"

Lily decided not to ask what those few 'things' were. She knew well enough by now that she was worried about the baby, but James downright obsessive about the whole matter, and whatever he needed Sirius's help on, it likely involved protective charms around the crib he had set up the day she had found out she was pregnant, and he would probably try and spell-proof the nursery door...

" Right. Well, run along then, James, I've got lots to do." Lily ordered offhandedly, resting her hands on her hips and surveying the counter with a keen eye. James followed her glance and it registered to him at last that there was an excessive amount and strange assortment of utensils, mixing bowls, cutting boards, and packages lying strewn about their kitchen.

" What _is _all this?" He demanded, as per usual of a man in a kitchen. " Lily, what have you been up to all day?"

" Not all day, I haven't even started yet." Lily snapped back. " But for your information, I am baking cakes."

" That's a lot of mix." James observed. " How many cakes are you making?"

Lily's eyes lit up; of all the Muggle activities she had ever engaged in, he knew, cooking was her greatest love of them all.

" Well, we need to make one for the Longbottoms, Alice is pregnant as well and Frank says she's already come down with the cravings…I think one for Sirius, he needs something besides eggs and fudge and butterbeer in his stomach for once…Remus, although we'll have to call around a bit to find out where he's at now if we want to deliver it…Peter, of course, he was just begging for some home cooking last week…Albus, he expressed a special interest in seeing if I could make a lemon-flavored one…Severus, I doubt he ever…gets…"

Lily trailed off, staring at James' face as the wide, open planes closed, a hard mask veiling his normally buoyant features. Reciprocal pain flashed through Lily's eyes, and she dropped the hands she had been counting names off on, her green eyes hurt.

" Why him?" James spoke with icy tones.

" He's…he was my _best friend_, James." Lily stated quietly, not meeting his burning gaze. " I get farther away from him every single day. I _want _to do something for him. I care about him."

" But youlove _me_." James' voice was a token brighter.

" Of _course_." Lily sighed, exasperated.

" Well, that's okay then, I guess." James stepped closer and rested his hands on her waist, pulling her close to him but not embracing her. " So, tell me, how _do _you bake a cake?"

Lily grinned mischievously.

" There are seven different ways I know of to bake a cake." She began, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

" Go on." James grinned.

" The first…is this." Lily reached around behind her, lifted her wand without removing her eyes from his, and cried out, wand held aloft, " _Accio bakery cake!"_

For several moments, nothing happened; then, with a whizzing _bang _and the tinkling of shattered glass, a large white box sailed through the window over the sink and landed on the floor at Lily's feet.

Blushing scarlet, Lily repaired the broken window with a flick of her wand, pulled away from James' hands, and picked up the cake box, setting it on the table.

" Clever, woman." James complimented grudgingly.

" Isn't it? I bought it earlier this morning." Lily stated brightly.

" That's one down, six to go." James hesitated, then added, " By the way, who gets the last cake?"

" Us, of course." Lily replied with a mock-roll of her eyes.

" Oh, good, I thought it would be Voldemort, the way you're going." James joked, hopping up to sit on the counter and watch her. " So, what's phase two?"

" Phase two _and_ phase three involve…" Lily grinned, and lifted her wand a second time; the cake-mix boxes near James' left hand sailed to Lily's arms, and she set them down on the counter. " Mixing by magic, and by hand, using pre-made mix."

" Fun." James interrupted, and when Lily shot him a hard look, he grimaced apologetically. " Sorry, go on."

" Right." Lily sighed. " Observe." She twisted her wrist, and the utensils and mixing bowls sailed over, the cake box was stripped of its top, and a rhythmic clanging and _whooshing _filled the air as the cake began to make itself.

" Nice." James complimented a second time. Lily smiled and set to the second box, following the instructions to the letter, her burrows furrowed in singular concentration. James watched her, watched the subdued sway of her hips and worshipped the tender tuck of her stomach with appraising eyes. He found it extremely difficult to pay attention when she and her magicked utensils finished the second and third cakes, runners-up to the bakery-snatched one, and she flounced across the room to grab the next two boxes.

James grinned wickedly as Lily drew even with him, and he brushed his hand once from her temple to her belly, in a motion so quick she didn't have a chance to stop him. Lily gasped, her cheeks going red, and she slapped his knee with the hand not burdened down by a mix-box.

" Stop it. You're acting like Sirius."

James laughed.

" There are worse people to imitate." He commented. " Besides, you're my wife."

" And I'm _trying _to concentrate." Lily snapped pertly. " Now, if you please…"

She spun around and flounced back to the opposite counter, but James leaped down to follow her, standing at her shoulder as she began to strip the tops of the boxes.

" Phase four and phase five involve mixing with magic and by hand from _scratch_." Lily's tone bubbled with enthusiasm; she had already forgotten and forgiven him his transgressions, it seemed.

" Erm…why the boxes, then, if it's from scratch?" James inquired.

" Because _these_…" Lily smiled. " Are all of the ingredients _needed _for scratch." She dumped several large packages onto the countertop, and turned to smirk devilishly at him. " Since you're so interested, why don't you help me?"

While the cake-children of phases two and three baked in the oven, filling the kitchen with their rich aroma, Lily and James worked side-by side at one mixing bowl, letting the magicked utensils work the other; James made a point of smearing batter on Lily's cheek, and she got him full on the tip of his nose. They laughed heartily, eyes shining, and within an hour James had learned how to bake a cake from scratch.

" Excellent." Lily stated admiringly as they pushed the third and fourth cakes into the oven. She glanced at the first two, cooling on a counter-rack nearby, and added, " The bakery-bought cake can go to the Longbottoms, I'm sure Alice will enjoy it…the double-fudged chocolate one can go to Sirius, he's got such a sweet tooth, and the angel's-food can go to Severus."

" Might rub off on him." James muttered, and Lily smacked his arm reproachfully.

" In case you hadn't noticed, James Potter, that Devil's Food cake has rubbed off on _you_." She touched the tip of his nose, and her finger came away smeared with batter. She licked it clean, keeping her eyes fixed on James, and he felt a subtle tightening in his midsection at the allure of her beautifully seductive green gaze…

Just when his eyes had begun to cloud over with the force of his somewhat wandering thoughts, Lily pulled her finger from her mouth, and grinned.

" Right, then, we'll give the orange-crème to Remus and the Devil's Food to Peter, he loves sweets even more than Sirius…" She spun around with an absent-minded cant of her head and began to wave away the steam rising from the already-baked cakes. Shaking away his errant thoughts, James stepped up behind her, so near that their bodies melded infinitesimally together.

Lily sucked in a harsh breath at the contact, and held it so long that James feared she would soon turn purple from oxygen loss. When the silence showed no sign of breaking, he forced himself to speak, though his voice wavered slightly.

" So, what's next on the agenda?"

Lily exhaled in a quick burst and stepped away from him, moving toward the refrigerator at the far end of the room. She rummaged inside of it for nearly a full minute before she emerged with several wrapped plates balanced precariously in her arms.

" Chilled lemon cake." She grinned wryly at his raised brows and wide eyes. " I know, I know, it's not exactly baking, but I'm sure Albus will enjoy it anyway."

" And how does one make _chilled lemon cake_?" James pronounced the last three words with an even more forcefully pronounced English accent than was his normality, and Lily laughed lightly at the rhythm of his speech as she splayed the ingredients out before him.

" It's simple, really, just like making meringue pie, only there are two layers of the topping rather than just one—one on top, one on bottom, and the lemon filling in the middle."

" Sounds delicious." James' teeth grazed her earlobe as he leaned close to whisper the words, and he felt a token smug as a tremor rocked visibly down Lily's spine.

Then he stepped past her, leaning against the counter to watch as she immersed herself in her work. He noted that her hands moved frequently to pat along her stomach, as though she was communicating silently with the tiny life growing inside of her—the child. _Their _child.

" Thought of any names?" James asked impulsively as he watched Lily whipping the egg-whites together a few moments later.

" You men!" Lily sighed, exasperated; she did not turn to face him. " It's a bit early for that, isn't it, but I suppose you and Sirius and Remus have already gone over some names?"

" Some." James allowed with a small smile. " More nicknames than anything, I mean, he's already a Marauder by birthright and he'll need a proper nickname when the time comes for his true induction…"

" It had better not be like Peter's induction, Remus told me the Great Squid nearly drowned him, and really what _were _you thinking sending a first-year into the Lake?" Lily snapped, all hot-head and temper again.

" That wasn't my idea, Lils, honest! It was…okay, well, it sort of was, but…"

" Right. I had forgotten who we were talking about." He could almost hear her eyes rolling as she mashed the whites together more forcefully than was necessary. " I suppose _you _wouldn't have nearly drowned and had to be saved by a teacher, would you?"

There was a sheepish silence from James that lasted for several minutes as he watched his wife simmer down from her anger, and then Lily spoke again, her voice surprisingly tentative.

" You said…you called the baby a 'he'." She was nearly whispering.

" And…?" James drew the word out into three syllables, acutely relieved that she had decided to let the subject of Peter's near-drowning all those years ago slide away.

" So you think it's a boy?"

" It had better be, can't be an honorary Marauder if it's a girl, can it?" James tried for a severe tone, and failed. He saw Lily's shoulders shake with silent laughter.

" Names, then, while we're on the subject?" She prompted.

" What?" James snapped back to reality, having been temporarily mesmerized by the subtle sway of her hips as she giggled to herself. " Oh, right. Well, we've just been throwing some things around, nothing too big and fancy, or something that's been used a million times…"

" James…"

"…Not much to choose from, then, I mean, we don't want something ridiculous of course…"

" _James…."_

" And you know how Sirius gets when he's drunk, and, well, I wasn't exactly of a right mind myself…"

" _James_!"

" Yes, love?" James broke off, sounding wholly innocent. Lily's teeth smashed audibly together.

" The _names_."

" Well, we were talking Kiera if, God forbid, it was a girl…nickname of Shadowfox, since she'd most likely have your hair and your _foxy _personality…"

" I'm flattered." Lily growled.

" And for a boy…" James hesitated. " Well, don't laugh, Lils, it's pretty common, but we were thinking of Harry."

A prolonged silence stretched between them. Lily began to mold the cake together—layer by layer by layer—and James watched her apprehensively.

And then she turned, cake complete, tray in hand, and her smile was radiant.

" And have you thought of any nicknames for our little Harry James Potter?"

James' face broke into a grin to match hers, and he twisted around to follow her to the refrigerator as she stowed the cake there for chilling.

" I dunno, Sirius was thinking Lightningfoot since we're meaning to make him an Animagus as soon as we possibly can, and we figure the only animal fast enough to keep up with the rest of us would be a horse…"

" He sounds like a true Marauder." Lily commented softly as she turned away from the refrigerator and into his embrace.

James held her for a moment that seemed to last a lifetime; the feeling of her warm breaths against his chest was causing strange happenings in his lower torso, and his heart was racing in ways that months and months of contact with her should have prevented, and they only abandoned one another's arms—with an almighty leap that set them five feet apart from each other—when the oven chimed to show that the two cakes within had completed their baking cycle.

Lily was a curious shade of red that nearly matched her hair as she bustled around James and made for the oven; James stood stiffly still as he listened to her moving about, banging the oven door and clanging the hot cakes down on the cooling rack with much more force than was necessary. At last, feeling controlled, he ran a hand shakily through his hair and turned to face his wife.

Lily was standing before the oven, her hands braced on the countertop widely apart, her head bowed beneath the line of her shoulders. Concern washed through James in a hot tide at the sight of her immobile form and stepped toward her, standing behind her and resting his hands gently on her hips.

" So tell me, Lils." He murmured. " What's the seventh way to bake a cake?"

" The seventh way?" Lily's voice was slightly high-toned with excitement. " The seventh way to bake a cake…"

And she broke off mid sentence, spun around, and leaped; James caught her reflexively but unnecessarily as her legs wrapped around his waist and she rested her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes, a head above his, held his gaze with a fire that was impossible to escape from.

" The seventh way to bake a cake is to let it bake itself."

James' grin was so wide it pained his face to wear it as he swung around and crushed his lips to hers, bearing her down the hall to their room and slamming the door behind them.


End file.
